A Season to Be Sinful

by Jo Goodman

  “You understand I am in want of a good explanation.”

  Lily jerked in surprise. Instinct had her turning toward the doorway, all sense that she was standing on the narrow pad of a stool forgotten. Her nerveless fingers dropped the hem of her gown, and the legs that she’d hope would hold her soon were not up to the task now. She offered a rueful, apologetic smile when they folded as easily as paper and squeezed her eyes closed as the floor rose up to meet her.

  Four

  Lily’s graceless fall to the floor did not occur in the manner she anticipated. She was saved from the impact with that hard surface when Sheridan rushed to her aid. The point of impact, though, was him, and for Lily it was not all that different than meeting up with the floor. He was a man of many hard surfaces, and she seemed to be pressed flush to all of them.

  For Sherry’s part, he had not expected she would be quite the handful she was or that the stool she’d been standing on would overturn and trip him up. The unfortunate result of this was that his rescue was as graceless as her fall.

  “In my defense,” he said wryly, “it must be pointed out that I did manage to take the brunt of it.”

  Lily raised her head a fraction so that she might stare down at him. “As well you should have. You caused it, you know.”

  “I see you mean to give me no quarter, though I can’t say I blame you. Are you quite all right? The stitches?”

  Carefully inserting a hand between their bodies, Lily pressed her fingertips against her injury and explored the line of stitches. “I seem to be all of a piece,” she told him.

  His regard was suspicious. “Can you move?”

  Wriggling fingers and toes, she nodded.

  “Can you move off of me?”

  Lily flushed deeply and tried to scramble off.

  “Easy,” Sherry said, catching her elbows and securing her again. “You forget how little strength you have. Let us try again, shall we?” He eased his hands to her shoulders and held her while he rolled them both until they were lying side by side. “Steady?” When she nodded again, he released her and sat up. He did not miss the tightness around her mouth as he pulled her into a sitting position beside him. He also noticed she did not complain.

  Sherry rose to his haunches, then to his feet, and contemplated the best way to put Lily on hers. She took the matter out of his hands by tucking her knees under her and hauling herself up, using the corner of the commode stand for support.

  “You are rather more self-sufficient than is strictly proper for a damsel in distress.”

  “I beg your forgiveness, then,” Lily said. Her hand rested over the placement of the stitches.

  “It was merely an observation,” Sherry said, watching her closely. The slight curve of her mouth was more wince than smile. He pointed to the site of her injury. “I think I shall have to have a look at that.”

  She shook her head. “It is nothing. Merely a stitch in my side.”

  “Self-sufficient and a wit.”

  Lily chuckled at his arid tone and immediately was sorry for it. She pressed her palm tighter still to her side and sucked in a short breath. Before she could mount a scold, she was plucked off her feet and cradled in Sheridan’s arms. “You are determined that I should require your assistance,” she said. “It is really very curious.”

  “I know. You cannot imagine my surprise.”

  She bit her lip to keep her amusement in check. “Then you are not by nature chivalrous.”

  Sheridan carried her toward the bed. “Most certainly not. You will not like to hear it, but there is no precedent for my behavior.”

  “It must be disconcerting for you then.”

  “Astonishingly so.” He set her on the bed and helped her slip a pillow comfortably under her head. “You will allow me to examine the stitches.”

  Lily studied his face, taking his measure. Absent from his features was any hint of amusement. The dark eyes were implacable, the mouth stubbornly set. She was quite certain she was seeing something that was part of his nature: getting precisely what he wanted.

  Sheridan placed his hand on her side just below the injury. He felt her skin retract as she sucked in a breath. For a brief moment the dark centers of her green eyes widened so that her study of him became unfocused. He almost drew back. His hesitation lasted just long enough that she calculated his resolve to be unyielding and finally gave her permission.

  “This will take but a moment,” he told her.

  Lily closed her eyes. Her brow knit as she felt him rise from the bed. The movement was unexpected, and she was curious enough to risk a peek in his direction. From behind carefully shaded eyes, she watched him cross the room to the vanity and open the small wooden box resting there. She could not see what he removed, but she saw him pause to examine it. He seemed satisfied with the object, for he palmed it and closed the lid.

  Lily’s fists curled lightly at her sides when he sat down again. She expected to feel his knuckles brush the length of her leg as he raised the nightgown or feel his fingertips on her skin at her neckline as he lowered it. In some ways it was worse that neither of these things happened. Anticipation made her light-headed; her breathing quickened. She wondered if she would scream and if he would cuff her as roundly as Blue.

  She raised her lashes only that fraction necessary to see what he was about. What she glimpsed made her go entirely still. In his right hand he held a shiv and was directing it toward her injury. There could be no mistaking that he meant to plunge it in her side.

  Lily threw herself sideways and rolled toward the far edge of the mattress. She felt him reach out for her, but she eluded his hands—and the shiv—by dropping over the side of the bed in a crouch. She stayed low and heard him curse softly and only once, then wondered why he did not fill the air with more expressions of his frustration.

  She listened for some sign that he meant to give chase. When there was no movement, she slowly raised herself so that she could see over the bed’s horizon. He was sitting almost exactly as she had left him, turned slightly sideways with his knee drawn up for balance. He still held the shiv, but he was contemplating it now, turning it over in his hand as he did so.

  She supposed that he caught her movement out of the corner of his eye, for his head swiveled in her direction. She did not make herself a better target by rising higher but remained in the half-crouched position in spite of the pressure it placed on the stitches.

  “Do you think I mean to gut you?”

  That he would put the question to her so baldly made her begin to doubt that she’d drawn the proper conclusion from his actions. She regarded him and the shiv warily. “Don’t you?”

  “If that is what you believe, I cannot comprehend what I can say to persuade you that is not my intent.”

  He made an excellent point. The thing of it was, she realized, she was disposed to being persuaded. “I suppose you are of the opinion that I am behaving foolishly.”

  Sheridan shrugged. “I do not judge you harshly. I can only imagine what you have been made to suffer at the hands of men. You know the truth. It seems you have reasons for expecting the worst even when you have been shown only kindness.”

  Lily rose a bit higher. She found his argument disarming. It was true that she had not taken what she knew of his character into account. She had not considered the question of why he would want to do her such grievous harm. She had only reacted.

  “You said you were going to examine my injury,” she said.

  “That was my design.”

  “Why do you need a shiv to do it?”

  Sheridan glanced down at the thing in his hand, considered it again, and nodded thoughtfully. “You thought this was a shiv?”

  “It is a shiv.”

  “It is also a tool to tear threads and fabric. I took it from my sister’s sewing box.”

  Eyes narrowing, Lily examined the weapon he dangled from his fingertips more closely. For the first time she saw it possessed an oddly shaped end, more like a cla
w than a single point. “A seam ripper?”

  “I have heard it called so,” he said mildly, drawing it back. He set it down on the bedside table.

  Lily gripped the edge of the mattress and pushed herself to stand. The question of what he had intended to do with it remained uppermost in her mind. She hazarded a guess as to his purpose. “You were going to remove my stitches, perhaps?”

  Sheridan sighed. “It is a temptation to name you the most foolish female of my acquaintance, but it has been my misfortune to know a number who surpass you in this regard.”

  “That must indeed be a trial to you.”

  “I have always thought so.” He smiled a little unevenly in her direction. “At least you had the good sense to move out of the way when you believed you were threatened.”

  “These women you would name as more foolish? They would have fainted?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “That does seem to show a considerable want of good sense.”

  “My thought also.” He pointed to the seam ripper. “I was going to use it to make a small tear in your nightgown so that I could see the condition of the stitches. I thought you would find it preferable to raising or lowering the shift. You affected such modesty that it seemed only proper that I make an attempt to preserve it.”

  Lily’s brows rose a fraction. “It is not an affectation,” she said. “I am modest.”

  “Yes, well, I admit to some curiosity on that count. Mayhap you will later explain it to me.”

  She blinked at him widely. “Explain modesty? Have you none yourself?”

  He waved her questions aside. “I will call upon Mrs. Ponsonby to make the examination. I should have done so at the first. It is only that I have become accustomed to caring for you myself. I do not say that to defend my actions, merely to explain them. Of course I will no longer do so.”

  “Take care of me?” she asked with a touch of derision. “Or explain yourself?” She smiled a little when she saw his mouth tighten with annoyance.

  “Do I amuse you?” he asked.

  Lily’s wistful smile vanished immediately. How easily she had forgotten herself. She could hardly tell him that his high instep could benefit from a good trouncing now and again. “No,” she said quietly, lowering her eyes. “I am sorry if I gave offense.”

  Sherry studied her bent head, the contrite posture. “You are ill suited to that penitent pose, so have off.”

  Lily’s head snapped up, her lips parting.

  He almost laughed aloud at her perfectly expressed astonishment. Instead, he said, “It is your hair, I suppose. A most unfortunate color.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “It used to be black.”

  “You are accusing me of something, I collect.”

  “I—I . . . no.”

  Sherry did not think that words often failed her, and he counted it as a small victory of sorts to have brought the thing about. He made her the subject of his most withering regard. “You are a singular creature, are you not?”

  Lily made no response, but neither did she look away.

  “Better,” he said, one corner of his mouth lifting. “I will ring for Mrs. Ponsonby.”

  She expected that he would summon her from the bedchamber, so she was at once relieved and puzzled when he quit the room. She pushed herself back onto the high bed but didn’t lie down. That he should have named her a singular creature was rather like the hedgehog finding fault with the thorn bush for being prickly. Did he know that? she wondered. Or was he supremely unaware of all the reasons she could say the same of him?

  He seemed to be blithely—perhaps arrogantly—unconcerned that she did not even know his name. She did not know where she was, except that it was most likely his residence. That particular circumstance was more than passing strange. Even on such short acquaintance, she comprehended that he set his clock by the conventions of society. He’d admitted as much to her, and yet he had taken her in, made provisions for her care, and now seemed bent on . . .

  What? she wondered. To what purpose had so much been done for her? She had not asked for it and certainly did not deserve it. The only explanation left was also the most obvious one: he wanted something in return. This was not a revelation but more of a disappointment. No matter how often she was reminded that kindness in the larger world was made in trade, not given freely, she continued to hold out hope that it would be different.

  “Foolish,” she said under her breath. Still, although she had learned that she could not reveal this optimistic sense of self to others, she also could not imagine embracing an alternative view of life.

  The question of what he would demand in return was left unanswered for the moment. Lily’s attention was diverted as the door opened and a woman of middle years and unsmiling disposition entered the room.

  “He said you might not be abed,” Mrs. Ponsonby announced without preamble. “At least I can report you were not on your feet. Lie down, girl. Or is it that you mean to injure yourself again?”

  Lily blinked.

  “And I have no use for owlish, wounded looks. His lordship may have taken you in like a queer notion, but those of us who serve him still have our good sense. You would be mistaken to think you can overstay your welcome by feigning injury or bringing it about in fact.”

  Quite unbidden, tears welled in Lily’s eyes.

  “Oh no.” The housekeeper held up one hand. “Those will not work, and I haven’t the patience for them. Lie down. Let’s be done with this.”

  Lily sniffed inelegantly and knuckled away the tears. How to explain them? she wondered. It was unlikely that Mrs. Ponsonby would want to hear that she put Lily in mind of Sister Agnes or that the scold was reminiscent of so many she had received at the abbey. It was not what the housekeeper said that provoked Lily’s tears but the manner in which she said it. Like Sister Agnes, Mrs. Ponsonby employed a termagant’s temperament to good effect. As a child, Lily had felt both distress and defiance. Now she felt only an unexpected sense of longing and deep, abiding loneliness.

  The unwelcome tears welled again.

  Lily quickly averted her glance and lay back as the housekeeper directed. To avoid another accusation that she was trying to elicit sympathy, Lily closed her eyes and placed her forearm across them. She ignored the housekeeper’s skeptical grunt and remained quiet during the examination.

  “You have indeed split two stitches,” Mrs. Ponsonby said as she drew the nightgown down. “His lordship will want to send for the doctor.”

  Lily tilted her forearm so she could see the housekeeper. The eyes that regarded her remained disapproving. “Oh, surely not.”

  “I think I know his mind on this better than you.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “No, of course you didn’t.”

  “We do not have to tell him.”

  Mrs. Ponsonby’s eyebrows rose halfway to her graying hairline. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Keeping something from him, I mean. That’s not how I’ve ever managed his lordship’s household, and I’m certainly not going to begin now. I don’t suppose a baggage like you thinks much of us that deal honestly with others, but there you have it. It’s clear you’ll need close watching.” She turned away from the bed and started to go, shaking her head as she spoke to herself. “A young woman no better than she ought to be living under his roof . . . turning the house on its head for her . . . it’s the devil getting his due, and that’s a fact . . . it’s not—”

  The door opened and closed, ending the housekeeper’s harangue. Lily simply sighed. It was difficult to find fault with Mrs. Ponsonby’s suspicions. She was right to entertain them, and the firmness with which she expressed them reflected well on her loyalty to her employer. Lily decided his lordship might benefit from adopting his housekeeper’s way of thinking.

  Oddly enough, his nibs was too trusting.

  Lily carefully pushed herself upright, resting once again against the headboard. She could not quite tamp her smile.

  His nibs.
So he was a gentleman and something else besides. She was not surprised. He was toplofty enough to be a prince, though of a certainty he was not. Mrs. Ponsonby had not referred to him as his grace, so he was not a duke. A marquess? Earl? Viscount? Was his nibs a baron? A baronet?

  It did not bode well for her that he was a titled gentleman. She had reason to know that there were few strangers among the noble inner circle of the ton. They were not merely connected by bloodlines; they were often bound by them. Observing the strictures of that small society had become an end unto itself, and the severest consequences were meted out to those whose behavior brought embarrassment upon them all. They could close ranks quickly in order to put a period to a scandal that might threaten their sense of the social order and their position as arbiters of what was right and proper.

  It once again begged the question of what his lordship wanted from her. He had risked something of his reputation by not only bringing her to his residence but allowing her to stay as long as he had. He had not given her a room in the garret or one belowstairs. The bedchamber she occupied had belonged to a person of some importance. Clearly he must know she was not such a person. Just as Mrs. Ponsonby had said, she was no better than she ought to be. If she were, his nibs would not merely be risking a nine days wonder, but a scandal of some middling proportions.

  He might not become a pariah in his own society, but neither would he be warmly welcomed. He would find his life could be made most uncomfortable. Lily did not think he would like that in the least.

  Woodridge had not.

  “You are wool-gathering.”

  Lily’s head came up sharply. His nibs was standing in the doorway, watching her. He looked as if he might have done so for some time. “It is not well done by you to enjoy a laugh at my expense.” She rubbed the back of her head where she’d thumped the headboard hard enough to make it shudder.

  “I am remarkably tightfisted,” he said easily, entering the room. “Better a laugh at your expense than my own. Have you raised a goose egg?”